


Cruel

by servantofclio



Series: Jocelyn Hawke [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, relationship angst, this is not happy Hawke/Anders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8328475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: If Varric were writing this story instead of recording it, he’d give it a better ending. But some people just don’t fit together right, no matter how much you try to twist them to fit.





	

Varric pretends he doesn’t hear Hawke talking to Blondie.

“Come on, stay,” she says. Her voice takes on a slightly nasal, wheedling tone, one he doesn’t often hear from her. “You’re always moldering away down there in Darktown, I’ve hardly seen you in a fortnight. Stay for a while.”

“I have patients to see to,” Anders says.

_She pleaded, her voice shaking. “You have to help me.”_

Part of Varric, as always, recasts the conversation, imagines some teary-eyed ingenue confronting the cruelty of the world, or a noble widow accused of a crime she didn’t commit. (That one’s not bad, he makes a note of it for later.) That part of him wants to give the dialogue to anyone but Hawke, who’s arguing now, her brows drawn down and her chin jutting out. It doesn’t do her any good; for all his twitchiness and rumpled feathers, Anders is immovable, and only keeps shaking his head.

Varric said his piece about her and Blondie a long time ago. Since then he’s been minding his own business. Now the two of them are in too deep, entangled with each other like one of Daisy’s balls of yarn. Since what happened to her mother, Hawke clings. She tries to be casual about it, but she spends more time at the Hanged Man, or drifting around to all of their houses, than she does at her own. She clings to all of them, but to Anders most of all, and these days Anders is slipping through her fingers like water, floating further and further away. Even Varric doesn’t know what he’s doing with his time. Probably scribbling away on that damned manifesto with a feverish glint in his eye.

(Varric once suggested Anders try his hand at fiction instead of another rambling manifesto; something about star-crossed lovers separated when one’s taken to the Circle, maybe. People eat that shit up. Anders looked at Varric like he was lyrium-addled, so Varric gave up. Some people just won’t take reasonable advice.)

_“You never come home any more!” the woman cried out, her voice rising._

Out of the corner of his eye, Varric sees the door swing shut behind Blondie, trailing black feathers from his coat. This isn’t going in the book. A lovers’ spat is one of the most trite, boring, and depressing things to read he can imagine. Hawke’s been through enough shit, she deserves better. It burns him up sometimes, how much she’s lost, and it sure looks like she’s losing this, too. If Varric were writing this story instead of recording it, he’d give it a better ending. But some people just don’t fit together right, no matter how much you try to twist them to fit.

He watches Hawke’s face fall as she slumps in her chair, lower lip poking out.

_The Champion of Kirkwall slouched in the tavern, pouting._

No, he’s not going to write that.

But for a moment, Hawke looks lost and small, blinking too quickly as she turns her head, and the sudden tide of fury that Varric feels surprises him. He indulges in a brief fit of imagination where he charges out of the tavern, grabs Blondie by the trailing tail of his coat, and punches him in the gut.

Varric shifts in his chair, unsettled by his own anger. It fades when he imagines the shocked look on Anders’ face, eyes blown wide. If he dragged the man back in here instead to see Hawke’s face, his shoulders would drop and there would be mumbled apologies. The world hasn’t exactly been kind to Blondie, either.

It’s a hard thing, but they’re just not good for each other, not any more. Varric isn’t sure either of them can see it.

He gives up pretending that he was writing – he hasn’t put pen to page in minutes, and his ink is going dry – and slides down a few seats until he’s next to her. “How about another round?” He’s poor enough company, but at least he’s there.

Hawke brightens up at once, rocking her chair back on two legs and bracing one booted foot against the table. “Well, if you’re buying,” she says in a mock-sultry voice.

Varric grins back, and waves to the bartender. “I am.” It’s just about the least he can do.


End file.
